


Heaven Can Wait

by Enfilade



Series: South of Heaven [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Functionist Universe Ratchet, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Stalking, Widower Drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2019-11-14 01:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18043028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: It feels like a second chance, but Ratchet of New Vaporex and Drift of Rodion aren't Ratty and Dreddlock.  Ratchet and Drift have no idea if this is even a date, let alone how to cope with the ghosts that hang between them.  Spoilers for Lost Light #25.





	1. A Bridge Too Far

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a bit darker than "Chasing Heaven," so a note on the warnings:
> 
> Ratchet of New Vaporex's relationship with Dreddlock was dark, messy, and Ratchet is still trying to figure out just how much he did or didn't consent to any of it. This theme is past tense/referenced more than shown, but still affecting him in the present.
> 
> Ratchet abuses engex as a mood booster. This theme is present tense and described explicitly.
> 
> Drift's past involvement with drugs and violence are referenced more than shown, but still affecting him in the present.
> 
> *
> 
> Moreso than my other stories, this one is connected to the previous story, "Chasing Heaven," and I'd recommend you start there if you haven't read it.

  
Chapter One: A Bridge Too Far 

Alone in his condo, Drift stared at his datapad. He really ought to be back in his office in the Spectralist temple right now—he knew the paperwork was stacking up—but none of his duties were urgent enough to keep his attention. He’d left work early to come home, where he could sit in rapt contemplation of the screen on his datapad, which displayed the contact frequencies for the administrative officers at the Rong Memorial Hospital in Adaptica. 

_Weird name for a hospital_ , Drift thought. 

If Drift punched this code into his comm link, he’d be connected to the switchboard of the administrative wing. From there, all he had to do was ask to speak with Head Medical Administrator Ratchet of New Vaporex. 

_And say what?_ Drift asked himself. 

_Ask him if he’s okay_ , he countered. 

Drift rolled over on his berth, staring up at the ceiling. 

_You don’t have to call him to find that out._

It had been a week since his night at Ratchet’s apartment, and he hadn’t heard a peep from the mech since. 

He wanted to hear Ratchet’s voice. All he’d have to do would be to call the hospital… 

But he wouldn’t. He knew why it would be the wrong thing to do. 

_Chasing him’s only fun if he wants to be caught._

Drift had been the one to drag Ratchet to see First Aid. He’d also been the one to invite himself into Ratchet’s berth. It was time to see if Ratchet actually liked Drift’s attention or if he was merely going along with it because he was shaken at his diagnosis, or because he didn’t want to hurt Drift’s feelings, or because Drift had been forceful, or… Hells. Maybe Ratchet had been scared of Dreddlock on some level. Maybe he thought the same of Drift. 

_Ratchet was the one who volunteered to stay with you,_ said a little voice in Drift’s head. But Drift didn’t trust it. It sounded like Deadlock. It was trying to convince him of what he wanted to hear, instead of what was right. 

_Ratchet volunteered to stay with me because he was afraid I’d go back to using drugs. Because_ I _was afraid. All that proves is that he didn’t want to abandon a mech in crisis. It doesn’t mean he_ likes _me. Doesn’t mean he wants to have a personal relationship with me. Doctors have empathy for their patients without being their friends._

_There are a lot of good reasons why he might_ not _want a personal relationship with me._

_He knows what I want. Now it’s up to him to tell me what he wants. Otherwise, I need to leave him alone to live his life._

Still, it hurt that Ratchet hadn’t even called to let Drift know that he was okay. That was all Drift had asked of him. Just the occasional call to say he was recovering, that he was taking care of himself. Now Drift was left in this limbo, wondering what had become of Ratchet of New Vaporex. 

_You don’t need to talk to him to find out if he’s okay._

Drift knew where Ratchet lived, and he knew where he worked. The past few centuries of respectable life had not dulled Drift’s edge that much. Drift still knew how to stalk a target, how to observe from the shadows, how to circumvent basic security. Adaptica was not that far a drive from Iacon now that ground-level versions of the space bridge linked most of the major cities. And New Cybertron had quite a bit of information on their public extranet. 

He didn’t want to be a creep. He vowed not to break any laws. No break and enter, no snooping in Ratchet’s personal files, nothing like that. He could watch Ratchet from the shadows and Ratchet would never even know he was there. No harm, no foul. 

Right? 

That voice was starting to sound like Deadlock again. 

Drift wriggled, stuffing his head under the pillow. He just wanted to know if Ratchet was okay. Was that so wrong? 

Drift moaned. 

Without warning, his comm link buzzed. 

Drift twisted and sat up, glad that no one else was here to see his guilty expression. He felt as though he’d been caught doing something naughty. “Hello?” he said. 

At least he sounded like an entirely respectable Spectralist priest instead of a former bounty hunter who’d contemplated using his old skills to shadow Ratchet of New Vaporex. 

_Probably someone at the temple wondering where I am._

“Hello. Is this Drift?” came a voice that was painfully familiar. 

“Y-yes,” Drift stammered. 

Static. 

Drift had been wishing so hard to talk to Ratchet, and now that the universe had seen fit to manifest his wish, he couldn’t think of a single intelligent thing to say. 

“How are you, Ratchet?” he blurted, trusting the inane small talk to buy him time to think. 

“You’ll be happy to know that Flatline has confirmed that First Aid’s treatment plan is working,” Ratchet said. “I’m to come back for regular monitoring, but it seems I’m already bouncing back from my near miss with spark burnout.” 

“Th-that’s great.” So much for intelligent conversation. 

_There. He’s done exactly what you asked him to do. He’s let you know that he’s all right. And now the conversation is over._

_Unless you think of something to talk about, and do it fast._

His mind was blank. Catastrophically blank. Empty. Ratchet was going to slip through his fingers, and he couldn’t even close his hands to pray. 

“So I thought I might go to Maccadam’s Old Oil House in Iacon to celebrate,” Ratchet continued, “and I wondered if you might like to come with me.” 

“Um,” Drift said, while one side of his brain lit up with shocked delight and the other side exploded with amber warning lights. 

_Talk or you’ll lose him!_

Why wouldn’t his mouth cooperate? 

“Oh,” Ratchet said quietly. “Oh, Drift, I’m sorry.” 

Confusion shocked Drift from his stupor. Though “What?” would never go down in history as a particularly clever or original response, it at least served to keep Ratchet talking. 

“You don’t want to go to a bar, do you? I’m sorry, I should have thought.” 

Slowly, Drift figured out what Ratchet meant by those comments. “No, that’s fine! I’d love to go.” 

“You’re sure.” Ratchet sounded skeptical. 

Drift was taking no chances that the alternative to Maccadam’s would be not going out at all. “I’m totally fine in a bar. Overenergizing was never my vice of choice, Ratchet. I don’t drink engex often, and I don’t drink a lot when I do, but I do enjoy the occasional glass on a special occasion and besides, Maccadam’s has lots of other fuel offerings that taste just as good with my FIM chip fully engaged.” 

“And it doesn’t bother you being around other mechs who are indulging.” 

“Like I said, overenergizing was never my vice of choice.” 

“All right then. Are you free tomorrow?” 

It was as though Drift’s voxcoder had been broken and then repaired. Suddenly he could speak freely. 

The rest of the conversation was brief, and simple—finalizing details, a few pleasantries, a perfunctory “See you tomorrow, good-bye,” but Drift’s mood had transformed utterly. He felt as though a light had dawned in the dark corners of his soul, illuminating him in all his best and worst aspects. Instead of fearing the ugly and harmful aspects of himself, he embraced them as facets of his wholeness. Valid parts of who he was, but not _all_ of who he was. Not _defining_ who he was. He did not need to hide those parts from Ratchet of New Vaporex. Ratchet was well, and Drift couldn’t wait to see him again. 

Only then did it occur to Drift that one important question remained unanswered. 

Was this…a date? 


	2. Consequence Free

Chapter Two: Consequence Free 

Ratchet had a very strange feeling in the vicinity of his fuel tank (lower starboard ventral side, to be precise) as he drove to Maccadam’s Old Oil House. Somehow he doubted that Flatline would find any physical cause if he were to go for a scan. No, this sensation was wholly a manifestation of his current emotional state. 

He hadn’t been on a date since the war ended, but even during the war against the Functionist Council, he’d never felt like this. Maybe because he’d not taken his wartime dates all that seriously. He wasn’t looking for anything permanent, so if things didn’t work out, it didn’t matter. There would be other mechs, other chances, tomorrow. 

This time it was Drift. This time it mattered. He would only have one shot. Whatever he did tonight, there would be consequences. 

For a moment he feared he never should have contacted Drift at all. 

Every day for the first few days after they’d met, Ratchet had opened his comm link, started to punch in Drift’s number, and stopped, because he had nothing new to say about the state of his health. He was doing what First Aid had said to do, but was it working? He was afraid of what it would mean if he called up Drift to report something so inconclusive as _I feel okay, I’m following doctor’s orders, I don’t know if anything’s changing._

Instead of dwelling on divining the deeper psychological reasons for his behaviour, Ratchet did the responsible, professional thing. He waited for the results of Flatline’s tests. He thought about telling Drift about that—it would at least let Drift know he was taking his recovery seriously—but what if the follow up gave him bad news? Maybe he should actually have the appointment first. 

So he didn’t call, and as the days went by, he thought that Drift… 

Well, he thought that Drift would be _Dreddlock_. 

He thought he’d be on his way home from work one day when all of a sudden an arm would reach out from the shadows, wrap around his throat, and drag him into some dirty side alley. Or maybe he’d make it home and open his door to find Dreddlock standing in the wreckage of his apartment. Ratchet would no longer have to worry about right and wrong, shoulds and shouldn’ts, when Dreddlock made his move and took all choice away. 

But Drift kept his distance. Ratchet wondered if Drift maybe didn’t care so much about him after all. Or was Drift just a decent person who respected his boundaries? 

Confused, unsettled, and feeling alone, Ratchet went to his follow-up medical appointment. Good news. Instead of feeling relieved, Ratchet felt more anxious than ever. He was out of excuses. He had something to report. And Drift had begged him to please just let him know how he was doing. Please to just let him know he was okay. 

Ratchet couldn’t deny the kid such a simple request. Putting it off any longer would be needlessly cruel. Particularly if Drift was actually respecting his autonomy, instead of hunting him down like Dreddlock would. Like Dreddlock _had_. 

So Ratchet had called, and that strange feeling in his fuel tank had taken control of his voxcoder and blurted out an invitation straight out of the old Party Ambulance’s little black book. A completely unthinking invitation, and a moment later he wondered if he’d blown it by inviting a recovered addict to a bar, but Drift managed to convince Ratchet that he didn’t have problems with engex. Which meant that Drift either definitely didn’t, or he definitely did and he was good enough at lying to fool a doctor. 

_Medical administrator. Doctor in name only._ Ratchet hadn’t seen patients since the war. And he hadn’t seen patients for a million years before the war, either. He was a has-been, and the revolution had been desperate enough to need him working with patients instead of paperwork until the battle was won. Then he’d gone right back to his old role. 

Dwelling on his professional career, and how pathetic it was next to Ratchet of Vaporex’s, was a good way for Ratchet of New Vaporex to avoid thinking about his own relationship with engex. 

Ratchet wasn’t an addict by the medical definition. He didn’t get overcharged on duty. He didn’t black out, fall over or lose track of things. He’d never embarrassed himself because he was overcharged. He didn’t spend more money or time than he intended to on engex. He didn’t wake up and immediately deactivate his FIM chip. 

But a mech didn’t have to be a clinically diagnosed addict to have an unhealthy relationship with engex, and Ratchet was well aware of his inadvisable choices. He knew very well that he consumed engex more often than he ought to, for reasons beyond simply enjoying the taste. Engex helped him to avoid thinking about the things he’d seen and done during the war. It washed away the guilt he felt for not rebelling against the Functionists sooner. It took away the hurt he had from his failed relationship with Pharma. It helped the worn-out, stodgy Head Medical Administrator turn back into the Party Ambulance from his med school days. 

Engex was not medication, and Ratchet had to stop using it as a crutch, or as an excuse. 

One of these days. 

But not tonight, because Ratchet had just pulled up in front of Maccadam’s and noticed the sleek white speedster leaning against the wall outside. Oh, he was going to need engex tonight. One glance at Drift took Ratchet’s breath away. 

No, he wasn’t how Ratchet had imagined Drift of New Rodion might be if he’d gotten clean and become a functional, law-abiding member of society. He was strange and exotic, almost alien, living a life Ratchet would never have imagined. 

Drift wasn’t wearing his priest’s cloak, but the ornate glyphs etched into his frame glittered in the streetlight and turned the heads of mechs walking past on the sidewalks. Or maybe it was Drift’s streamlined curves and gleaming paint that caught their attention. By any definition, Drift was beautiful. 

Ratchet changed shape and realized that he was an awful person. 

Drift was far out of his league. The _only_ reason a worn-out has-been box on wheels like himself had any chance with the likes of Drift was that he was the spitting image of Drift’s dead conjunx. What had Drift admitted? 

_You could have me with a smile._

What kind of person put the moves on a mech who’d just finished burying the love of his life? 

But Drift had accepted, and as Ratchet tried to convince himself that it was perfectly all right for him to do something that Drift had agreed to, another thought crossed his mind. 

There were different ways for people to care about one another. Drift was obviously worried about him, but he’d given no signs of wanting to ‘face him. Hells, they’d slept in the same berth and it had been absolutely platonic all night long. 

Maybe, since Ratchet cared about more than a quick frag tonight, maybe he should let Drift set the tone for the evening. 

Relief flooded his spark, and he knew he was doing the right thing. No, he wasn’t the kind of awful person who took advantage of a grieving widower. He wanted Drift—of course he did—but Drift had to want him in return. Drift might not be ready yet. 

Drift might not be ready _ever_. 

Ratchet’s spark wrenched, but he pushed it aside. No point catastrophizing about the future. He was going to spend some time with a beautiful mech tonight, for the first time in a very long time, and he was damned well going to enjoy it. The best way to do that was to set his worries aside, and the best way to do _that_ was to order a few rounds of engex and let Drift take the lead. 


	3. Mantra

Drift drove too fast and arrived at Maccadam’s much too early. He took a few spins around the block to kill time and to bleed off some of the nervous energy pulsing through his lines. 

Briefly, he thought about what Ratty would say if he knew what he was doing tonight, but his brain’s attempt to guilt-trip him fell flat. He knew very well what Ratty would say. 

_Good for you, kid. I’m proud of you._

Ratty would be happy that Drift was doing something healthy to feel good, and Ratty would be glad that Drift had let another person into his life. 

Drift cautioned his imagination not to get too far ahead of itself. He still didn’t know if this was a date. 

_Remember. Ratchet of New Vaporex didn’t think of Dreddlock like that. Dreddlock was his patient. Someone he felt a duty of care to._

Drift came around the corner, changed shape, and studied his reflection in a shopfront window. 

He’d picked up a little road dust on the way over, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He looked polished, but not _too_ polished. The first thing he’d done when he got home from the temple today had been to soak in the oil bath, sluice himself off, and start rubbing his fanciest wax, the stuff with the iridescent sparkles, into his frame. He’d gotten his helm glowing with a mirror shine before he realized what it would look like if he rolled up to Maccadam’s glistening like a high-class courtesan. 

He knew he couldn’t pursue Ratchet of New Vaporex too aggressively. He had to give Ratchet enough space to be comfortable with their relationship and enough time to decide what he wanted that relationship to be. Drift wanted to be in Ratchet’s life _somehow_ , and if all Ratchet ended up wanting was a friend, then Drift would make do with that. It might be hard for Drift, who wanted to hold Ratchet so badly, but it was far better than not being involved with Ratchet in any way at all. 

Polishing himself up like a mech on the pull would be utterly counterproductive. Drift had set down his sparkle wax and settled on the stuff he used for most services at the temple. It was nice-looking without being overly formal, and it made him shine without looking as though he were trying to draw attention to his body. If he overdid it on the buffing, well, the drive over should take a little of the gleam off of him. 

Now, Drift studied his reflection. He still looked pretty nice, without giving off the vibes of a mech who was here to charm somone into his berth. His helm was still a little sparkly, but that was socially acceptable for a mech who wanted to look good. It wasn’t as though he had a full body mirror shine. 

Satisfied, Drift turned around and leaned against the wall. He took a deep breath into his vents and repeated a Spectralist mantra over and over in his mind. He let the rhythm of the words lull his conscious brain while his breath passed rhythmically in and out of his vents. 

It wasn’t his best meditation. Every once in a while he’d perk awake and scan his surroundings. Not for threats, like he typically did when his mind wouldn’t let him zone out, but for the shape of a white ambulance with its sirens off. 

Instinct skittered down the back of his neck, telling him to look more closely. Out of the corner of his eye, Drift spotted Ratchet coming down the street. 

He didn’t turn his head. Not yet. He couldn’t let himself come across like a predator waiting to pounce. Even if he felt like one. Drift cautioned his more feral aspect to behave itself tonight. 

He could imagine Deadlock’s chuckle echoing around his brain. Drift didn’t let it get to him. Were Deadlock and Dreddlock really so different? If Ratchet had possessed the strength to care about a Functionist enforcer, the Deadlock parts of Drift would surely not be deal breakers. 

So he turned his head lazily to the side, and didn’t let his reaction show on his face until Ratchet had changed shape and stepped towards him. Then he pushed away from the wall and greeted Ratchet with a smile. 

“H-hello,” Ratchet stammered. 

Ratty had not been the stammering type. It wasn’t that he had been immune to anxiety. It was that his automatic response to it had been to square his shoulders and push forward, staring down whatever was agitating him. 

Drift took the warning. Ratchet of New Vaporex was nervous. 

“Hey, good to see you,” Drift said with a charming smile. He stopped a pace away from Ratchet—welcoming but safe. “Shall we?” 

“Sure.” 

They stepped through the door. Drift’s optics flickered over every mech in the room. It was early, and the place was only about a third full. It would fill up in short order. Drift inhaled deeply, but the only thing that met his olfactory sensors were the smells of fuel and engex and wax and other mechanisms. Normal smells. Safe smells. No reek of spilled fuel, no tang of gunpowder, no whisper of rot and decay. 

Ratchet turned to Drift and said, “So where would you like to sit?” 

Drift’s instincts, slumbering until then, perked up at full alert. This was a test. 

The front of Maccadam’s bustled with mechs hanging out in groups, lining the bar, lounging in seats or circling around standing tables. This area would grow busier yet as the night went on. The stage, currently empty, would be filled by a singer or perhaps a band. 

Drift had never liked crowds. His senses didn’t distinguish between a stranger innocently bumping him on an overpacked floor and an attack. Unwanted touches were met by retaliatory force unless Drift worked hard to hold himself back. It wasn’t fun. But he didn’t want to hurt someone whose only crime had been a little clumsiness. 

Even the tables were no good. Drift wanted to talk to Ratchet in depth. It was difficult to get into a deep conversation with strangers around making noise and maybe listening in. It was almost impossible when you had to shout over a performer to make yourself heard. 

Drift’s optics went to the back of the bar. This area was lined with cozy booths. Tall walls served as sound baffles, offering shielding from the noise of the main bar and privacy for the mechs within. Candles glowed softly in the middle of the tables. It was all quite romantic. 

Just the thing to scare away a skittish companion. 

Drift wished he’d let Ratchet think that he didn’t want to go to a bar, after all. A restaurant wouldn’t have forced him to make this impossible choice. What should he do? Sit in the front, be on edge all night, and struggle to carry on a conversation? Or sit in the back and look as though he were gunning for romance right off the bat? 

_Think fast, Drift._ The voice in his head sounded like Deadlock. 

And suddenly, Drift had an idea. 

_Okay, Deadlock. What would you do?_

Drift looked around the bar again, opening his optics to new possibilities. Under Deadlock’s gaze, a third option revealed itself. 

He led the way to a couch pushed back against the side wall in the center of the bar, next to the hall leading to the side alley. A low end table in front of it gave occupants a place to set their drinks. A series of decorative statuettes formed an impromptu wall on its closest side. This out of the way spot wasn’t a desirable seat, so the area was empty this early in the evening. 

It wasn’t a cozy walled off booth. It didn’t have a lit candle. It wasn’t all that terribly romantic. But it was comfortable and private, and it wouldn’t get too loud here until the music started. It kept Drift’s back to the wall, which would help him to feel safe. Nobody could sneak up on them this way. There was also no risk of someone that Drift knew coming through the front door and doing a double take at Drift’s companion. A mech would have to walk through half the bar for a good view of this couch; any mech who did would probably have other things on his mind. By the time the music started, Drift could suggest that they get a snack somewhere else. 

Drift grinned. “How about over here?” 

Ratchet seemed startled, but he sat down on the couch that Drift indicated. Drift gracefully sat on the other end. Near enough to feel the warmth radiating from Ratchet’s frame, but not close enough to touch. 

“You don’t want to be somewhere else?” Ratchet asked. 

“I want to hear what you have to say to me.” Drift’s grin became a somewhat more innocent smile. “How was your day at work?” 

“Fine.” Ratchet paused. “Boring. Same as every day.” 

“I don’t know what every day is like.” 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “You really want to know.” 

“I asked, didn’t I?” Drift shrugged. “I’m ready to get what I’ve got coming to me.” 


	4. Middle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...we can drive it home, with one headlight..."
> 
> Wallflowers song playing for this chapter.
> 
> #

Chapter Four: Middle 

Ratchet sat on the extremely unhelpful sofa in the middle of the bar that gave him absolutely no insight into what Drift was thinking. 

He’d _wanted_ Drift to haul him off to one of those private booths in the back and have his wicked way with him. To render his guilt irrelevant. 

He’d braced himself for Drift to slide onto a barstool at the front and drag Ratchet into the middle of a raucous party. Enough shots would have numbed the hurt that Drift wanted a pal to comfort him, not a lover to hold. 

But this? 

Ratchet didn’t know where he stood now. What it meant to be somewhere in the middle. 

“I need a drink,” Ratchet said weakly. 

Drift raised his hand and flagged down a waiter. “I’d like a Crystal City Mist,” he said. The drink technically had engex in it, but only a light spray for flavour – the “mist” in its name. Nobody was going to overwhelm their FIM chip with a Crystal City Mist. 

Drift looked at Ratchet, and an instant later, so did the waiter. 

Ratchet needed a lot more than a Crystal City Mist tonight. “Iacon Car Bomb,” he growled, knowing the name was considered offensive, and deciding he didn’t care. Drift gave him a scandalized look. Ratchet wasn’t sure if it was for the offensive name – did Drift even know about the bombs the Functionists had planted in cold-constructed mechs? – or for the fact that the drink involved a shot dropped into a mug of engex and quickly chugged. Ratchet snorted. Dreddlock wouldn’t have judged him. 

The waiter left to get their order and Drift looked at Ratchet expectantly. “You were going to tell me about your job?” 

Ratchet felt surly. He’d warned Drift that being a medical administrator wasn’t particularly exciting, but Drift was still asking, and he hadn’t had any engex yet. 

“Why don’t you start?” Ratchet countered. “I…” Ratchet hesitated. “To be honest, I don’t know what a Spectralist priest does all day.” 

“Oh?” Drift said. “You want a day in the life?” 

Ratchet nodded. Listening to this beautiful mech was a much more appealing prospect than admitting how dull his own life was. 

He’d thought he might use this time to admire Drift’s frame and try to figure out what the white speedster wanted from him, but he ended up engrossed in Drift’s explanation. He really hadn’t known what Spectralist priests did when they weren’t leading services in the temple. It turned out that Drift’s job had a lot of different aspects. He was responsible for organizing temple employees and volunteers, from the choirs and musicians who performed at the services, to the janitorial staff who kept the temple clean, to the outreach teams who helped those in need in the community. He assisted with a number of those outreach programs himself, particularly those which concentrated on essential services for the poor and therapeutic activities for survivors of the war. He was actively involved in teaching his congregation, both in the basic tenets of the faith, and in complimentary activities like meditation and acts of service. And, of course, he actively practiced the faith himself, and took part in inter-faith activities with the Neo-Primalists, Disciples of Epistemius, and Locians. 

The drinks arrived. Ratchet dropped his shot into his mug and chugged the whole thing. Drift sipped delicately on his Crystal City Mist. Ratchet felt as though he were in some bizarre backwards universe. 

Here he was, stodgy old HMA Ratchet, engaging in reckless behaviour like he was a foolish kid in med school again, while Dreddlock was a model of responsible conduct. But at least the engex was hitting his systems and dampening the worry that had been slithering in the bottom of his fuel tank all day. He still wasn’t sure if he’d end up taking advantage of Drift, being taken advantage of by Drift, or kept at a safe distance by Drift, but he was going to enjoy the ride no matter what. 

Ratchet set the empty mug back on the bartender’s tray and ordered a glass of engex. Something to drink a little more slowly, this time. 

Drift didn’t say anything about Ratchet’s choice in beverages. He just set his Mist down on the table and said, “Your turn.” 

Right. Drift wasn’t giving up. “Stop me when you get bored.” 

It turned out that Drift wasn’t easily bored. He wanted to know all about what Ratchet did, who he worked with, the biggest challenges integrating this universe’s medical personnel into the Functionist hospital system, overhauling the hospital system post-Functionists… 

_Of course, you old fool. He’d have learned all about those issues from his conjunx._

When Ratchet started talking about his role in training junior medics, Drift started telling some teaching stories from the temple. Before Ratchet knew it, the two of them were laughing, swapping stories about some of the students they’d had. 

Somewhere along the way, his mug had emptied. 

Ratchet excused himself to get another drink. As he walked to the bar—staggering only a little—he realized that he was feeling great, and it wasn’t the engex. He was _happy_. Happier than he’d been in a long time. 

Who would have thought that just sitting and talking with Drift would be so much fun? 

Who would have thought that Drift would be so interested in the things he had to say? 

Ratchet rested his arms on the bar, bracing himself, but though the world around him held steady, his spark spun with unrestrained joy. The bartender came over to take his order, and Ratchet realized that maybe he ought to engage his FIM chip and order some simple energon, or perhaps a Crystal City Mist like Drift’s. 

But when he opened his mouth, the words “another glass of engex, please,” came out. 

Ratchet didn’t entirely understand why he was deliberately making a bad decision. Particularly when he was enjoying himself. He wondered if he was trying to ruin a good thing because he didn’t think he deserved it, or if part of him still hoped that he could bait Dreddlock out of Drift if he became vulnerable enough. 

Psychology was never his specialty. He wasn’t that kind of doctor. 

So he took his glass of engex, paid, and headed back towards Drift, knowing he was heading for trouble. Knowing he should care about what happened next far more than he did. 


	5. That Was You And Me

Chapter Five: That Was You And Me 

Ratchet was drinking his engex awfully quickly. Drift couldn’t help but notice. 

His Ratty had felt the siren call of engex as a quick and easy solution to the cumulative stresses that dogged all medics. Ratty had been moderate in his old age, for the most part. There was no harm in the occasional glass on a night out, or a mug once in a while at home in front of the holovision. But every few years Ratchet would slip and have a bit more than he should. Drift didn’t mind when it happened so rarely. 

Ratchet of New Vaporex was already past that point. Drift wondered why. Was there something dark lingering in his thoughts that he was trying to wash away? Or was it Drift’s presence that was making him so reckless? 

Drift didn’t want to think that Ratchet did this all the time. Particularly given the current state of his health. Ratchet’s systems didn’t need the added strain of processing that much high-grade on a regular basis. 

Ratchet finished his drink and looked around for the bartender. He appeared as though he were about to raise his hand to get the mech’s attention. 

Drift leaned over and put his own hand over Ratchet’s wrist, pinning it to the couch. 

Ratchet looked at him with wide, surprised optics. Drift immediately regretted letting instinct guide his actions. He’d invaded Ratchet’s personal space, and he’d been aggressive. Most of all, it wasn’t his place as a casual acquaintance to pass judgment on Ratchet’s choice in beverages. He didn’t know if tonight’s behaviour was a problematic norm, or a one-off poor decision. 

Too late now. 

“You gonna be okay to drive home?” Drift asked, as a way to justify himself. As he spoke the words he realized the truth in them. He was worried about Ratchet. Still, that didn’t excuse his aggressive behaviour. 

“Yeah.” Ratchet paused. “I’ll activate my FIM chip, get a weak energon spritzer, and drink that before I go.” 

Drift felt better when he heard Ratchet voice a responsible decision. Drift just wished Ratchet hadn’t gotten himself overcharged first. And that he hadn’t responded by using force. 

Drift released Ratchet’s hand. For a moment, Ratchet looked regretful. Then he flagged down the bartender and ordered his spritzer. He looked at Drift. Drift nodded, and Ratchet made it two. 

Silence hung. 

Drift felt recrimination creeping over him again. They’d been chatting up a storm right up until he’d questioned Ratchet’s drinking and grabbed his hand. He’d blown it. 

_He’s not going to want to hang out with you again_ . 

_Stupid._

Pain rippled through his spark. 

Then the silence was broken by Ratchet blurting, “Did I ruin it?” 

“Huh?” Drift said, like a moron. 

“Ruined it.” Ratchet stared down into his lap. “Acting the fool.” 

“Hey, no.” Impulsively, Drift reached over and took Ratchet’s hand—gently this time. Tentatively, so Ratchet could pull away if he didn’t like the touch. “You didn’t ruin anything.” 

Ratchet looked up quickly and stared at him. His fingers closed around Drift’s. “I’m sorry.” 

Maybe it was too soon to hold hands. But Ratchet wasn’t drawing away. And Drift didn’t want to let go. 

Still, Drift felt a bit embarrassed. “No, I’m sorry, I…” 

_Don’t mention Ratty or you’ll scare him off._

“I have a bad habit of…I don’t know, being a little overprotective.” What word had Ratty used? “Fussing over you, I guess.” 

“Oh,” Ratchet said. He looked stunned: his beautiful blue optics impossibly wide as he gawked at Drift. His lips moved slowly, shaping his words. “Pl…please fuss over me.” 

Drift suspected he probably looked like an idiot, but he couldn’t tear his optics away from Ratchet’s face. This was the first indication he had that Ratchet actually wanted the kind of attention and care that Drift so longed to give him. “I’m really annoying,” Drift said distantly, echoing what Ratty had said in the middle stages of his decline. “You don’t need to be smothered.” 

Ratchet folded his other hand around Drift’s, cradling Drift’s hand between both of his. “No, that’s okay,” he said. “It’s been a long time since anyone has been so…concerned about me.” 

“Really?” Drift asked skeptically, before he could stop himself. 

Primus, but he had to remember that Ratchet of New Vaporex was not his Ratty. Drift couldn’t imagine nobody caring about Ratty’s welfare. Instead, he remembered how his Ratchet had kept people at arm’s length with a stern glare, a surly word, and the occasional airborne wrench. When Ratty didn’t want to hear it, it had been difficult to get a word through his thick skull. That was a lot different than _nobody caring._

But again, Ratchet of New Vaporex was a different person, and who knew what had happened through four million years of Functionism and a short, firey revolution? Ratchet of New Vaporex might well have been isolated by his form and function. As a born medic, he’d been blessed with a shape and vocation that were crucial to the needs of the Functionist oligarchs. They couldn’t repair themselves; they relied on people like Ratchet to do it. Ratchet, and people like him, had been among the safest, most fortunate citizens under the Functionist regime. Drift knew firsthand how easy it was for the unlucky to resent, even hate, those who had to work to learn how to think outside of the golden cages they’d been born into. 

Perhaps it was truly possible that, even though Ratchet had joined Megatron’s revolution, the other revolutionaries had not warmed up to him. Drift had to stop assuming that just because something had been false for Ratty did not necessarily mean it was false for Ratchet of New Vaporex. 

But Ratchet looked ashamed. “I suppose not _really_ ,” he admitted quietly. “Flatline was urging me to scale back my workload even before the revolution. Roadrage drops me a line every once in a while, and of course I tell her I’m fine. Every couple of years I get together with Thunderwing and Quark and Wheeljack and Perceptor, the little science squad, and they keep trying to get me to take part in this or that study, usually involving check-ups or some such, and I laugh them off and…” Ratchet trailed off. “I don’t know why I…why I don’t want them to be worried about me.” 

“Do you not want me to worry about you?” 

Ratchet huffed. “Would you stop if I told you to?” 

Drift smirked. “’Course not.” 

The medic sighed. “I don’t know why it’s different when it’s you,” he said, and then the bartender arrived with their spritzers. They reached for their drinks, and their hands parted. 

Ratchet sipped his beverage, then set it down on the table in front of them. “Sorry,” he repeated. “That conversation wasn’t exactly light fun.” 

Drift shrugged. “Doesn’t have to be.” 

Ratchet looked at him strangely. Drift realized that this Ratchet seemed a lot more preoccupied by what other people thought than his Ratty had ever been. His Ratty would huff and puff and go about his business of doing what needed doing, and woe to anyone who stood in his way. 

Drift felt his spark squeezed. He missed Ratty so, so much. 

And he had to be so, so careful not to try to make Ratchet of New Vaporex into the Ratty he remembered. 

On the other hand, he didn’t think it was _right_ for Ratchet to always feel that he had to apologize simply for…for _being_. This Ratchet seemed afraid to get in anyone’s way, always concerned about inconveniencing others. Primus forbid he should ever trouble anyone, no matter how dire his own needs. 

Drift felt a surge of protectiveness towards his companion. If Ratchet wouldn’t look out for himself, Drift damned well would. It felt good to put all his rage and passion and strength into something positive. 

As long as Ratchet gave his permission. Drift had to be careful of that. 

So Drift laid out his argument. 

“Listen,” Drift said quietly. “There was never any chance for us to stop our relationship at _light fun_. Not when it started with Orion Pax dumping my unconscious body onto your operating slab in an underground clinic in the Dead End that you weren’t even supposed to be running. From the second I woke up from what was supposed to be my last boost, my last _anything_ in this world, and I saw you looking down at me and holding my hand…from that moment on we were already far beyond _light fun_.” Drift swallowed. “I wouldn’t have lived all these millions of years if I hadn’t thought you were entirely serious when you told me I was special.” 

Ratchet swallowed, and he looked as though he were about to argue, but then he gulped. “By the Matrix, that _is_ how we met, isn’t it?” He grabbed his drink and guzzled half of it, as though he’d forgotten that there was nothing intoxicating in a weak energon spritzer. “This parallel universe business…our histories hadn’t divided yet. So that was _you_. You and me.” 


	6. Engraved

Chapter Six: Engraved 

“Yeah,” Drift said softly. “That was you and me.” 

It was one thing to understand the histories of two parallel universes, including the divergence point, and entirely another to grasp the emotional implications. 

Ratchet knew full well that the division point between his universe and Drift of Rodion’s had taken place somewhere just over four million years ago. Thunderwing had gone on and on about it. Then Quark had chimed in and he’d gone on and on even more. Ratchet had let them because catching up with his old associates had been one more distraction from what to do about Drift. They, of course, had been delighted to have an audience. Ratchet had learned something whether he’d wanted to or not. 

Thunderwing had explained that Megatron had been the tipping point. In their universe, Megatron had never been…what was the word? Megatron was a hybrid, neither born like a Forged mechanism nor built like a cold-constructed bot. Ratchet settled for _created_. There had been no Megatron and, as a result, no Decepticon movement, no millennia of civil war, no Functionist oligarchy. 

Privately, Ratchet was grateful to be from his own timeline. He couldn’t conceive of four million years of relentless war. Eight hundred had been far more slaughter than he’d ever wanted to see. Of course, he knew that he was coming from a position of privilege. He’d never had to fear for his life the way the first wave of cold constructed ‘bots had done. In the last few centuries he’d met so many people who were never born in his timeline, because they were MTOs. 

But he’d also met so many people who, despite being Forged, were simply missing from his timeline. People who’d died in those four millennia of Functionist control. His timeline was no less violent. He just hadn’t had to personally witness the violence. That might have been easier for him, but it had been worse for society at large. 

Until one considered “society at large” to mean societies beyond the Cybertronian. The universe he’d left behind was filled with people and cultures that were absent in this new one. Because the Cybertronian war had reached out and destroyed them. 

The two universes were so different now that it was easy to forget that they had once been exactly the same. 

Ratchet’s mind insisted on pretending that the gutter mech whose life he’d saved in the Dead End had grown up to become Dreddlock, the Functionist enforcer. Dreddlock, who had been Ratchet’s personal devil and also his saviour. Dreddlock, who was buried underneath the Deltaran Medical Facility with the rest of the ignominious dead. 

Drift of Rodion, on the other hand, was an entirely different person. Dreddlock’s clone, or his twin. Someone new, whom Ratchet had just met while he was visiting Dreddlock’s grave. 

But that wasn’t true. 

Before their timelines diverged, they had interacted with one another. The bot who’d landed on Ratchet’s slab in his Dead End clinic was both Drift of Rodion and the mech who’d become Dreddlock. Ratchet and Drift’s dead conjunx had also been one and the same, then. They’d only become different people at the moment when history had diverged. 

Ratchet still thought of his universe as the “real” one, and Drift’s universe as one that had been created, spun off when history had split. But Thunderwing had explained that this was not the case. Previous to the split, there had been only one universe, and after the split, two—both the “original,” each as valid as the other. 

So the Drift sitting with Ratchet now was not someone he’d just met. 

It was someone he had history with from over four million years in the past. 

By the time Megatron was created—or failed to come into being—Drift had already made a habit of haunting the streets around Ratchet’s clinic, protecting the building and the staff within from both the cruel and the desperate who lived in the Dead End. There were no more break-ins, no more hold-ups, and not a single mech accosted Ratchet in the street. Drift had made himself a reputation by then, working for one of the local gangs, and everyone in the neighbourhood knew that the clinic was under Drift’s protection. 

“This is difficult to think about,” Ratchet admitted. He wasn’t sure if his current engex buzz made the thinking easier or harder. “Sometimes I have to keep telling myself that you aren’t Dreddlock. There are things he did that you didn’t do. That I’m pretty sure you _wouldn’t_ do. But then…there are things you did that are _exactly_ what he did, because you were the same person up until Megatron was created in your universe and our timelines diverged.” Ratchet scratched his cheek. “You had all of Rodion terrified to step wrong around me or my clinic for fear of your retribution.” 

Drift blinked. 

Then he laughed. “Hey, yeah!” He smiled, but he looked a little sheepish. “Did you ever figure out it was the graffiti on your clinic walls?” 

It was Ratchet’s turn to blink. “I knew there were some kind of…gang markings on it. They kept reappearing, even when I tried to scrub them off. I know that one of the sigils meant _protection._ ” Ratchet’s finger traced the glyph on the tabletop. “Doesn’t surprise me you put it there.” 

Drift quickly traced out four glyphs that were very familiar indeed. Ratchet couldn’t help but shiver when he saw them. 

“The doctor…is under…my…protection.” Drift peeked up at him shyly. 

Ratchet’s right hand clamped down hard over the cover to his medical ports on his left forearm. 

“You, ah, you have them engraved?” Drift asked. 

_Engraved_ . Was that the word? Ratchet had always thought of them as _brands_. He remembered Dreddlock knocking him down, tying him to his own slab, tearing open the cover on his arm, carving the symbols with his blade. And all the while he’d hissed that Ratchet was _his_. 

Drift was watching him with that sheepish smile, and if this memory made Drift act like _that_ , then he was every bit as twisted as Dreddlock. 

“Dreddlock did, yes,” Ratchet said warily, wondering why he wasn’t making his excuses to depart. Pretending Thunderwing or Quark had called him. Feigning an emergency at the hospital. 

In his spark, he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t even blame the engex. 

He knew what kind of monster Drift was, and he still wanted to be here. 

“Did you do this one on him?” Drift asked shyly, and he opened up his own cover on his own left forearm, and showed Ratchet a single word etched into the living metal: 

_Forgiven_

Ratchet stared at it for a very long time. 

Drift’s smile slipped. “No?” 

“No,” Ratchet whispered, and as he did so, he realized it was Dreddlock, not Drift, who had marked him with those symbols. The timelines had diverged before those marks had been engraved. Dreddlock had already made choices that Drift had not, and vice versa. 

Ratchet opened his medical port cover and showed Drift the marks. __

Drift frowned. “Those look…really rough,” he said hesitantly. 

Ratchet had no idea how to answer. He still felt anger, which he couldn’t direct towards Drift. Drift had been innocent of Dreddlock’s choices. 

_How could he be? They’re the same person._

_No. They_ were not _the same person. That mech next to you? He didn’t do this._

Ratchet felt paralyzed. Part of him wanted to insist that Drift wouldn’t do what Dreddlock had done. Another part of him knew that Drift was every bit as capable of the same kinds of cruelties. 

_But you’re still here with him._

In the final analysis, that was what it came down to: no matter what Dreddlock had done, Ratchet had still mourned him. He’d still gone down and lit those candles on the Dreddbot’s grave, even though he rather doubted that there was an afterlife, or that Dreddlock would somehow know that someone remembered him. Ratchet knew that funerary rites were for the benefit of the living. He lit those candles because there had been good as well as evil in Dreddlock, and the good had been worth remembering. 

And now Ratchet was sitting here, of his own free will, next to Dreddlock’s alternate universe counterpart. 

He wondered if he might be foolish to believe that Drift had embraced compassion and kindness and respect for life. The things Drift had said about the work he did as a priest gave Ratchet so much hope. 

Of course, that work would also be the perfect cover for a serial killer, a murderer who had become addicted to the rush of taking the lives of others. 

That thought ought to give Ratchet pause, but it didn’t. 

Ratchet wondered what Flatline, or Thunderwing, or Quark would think if they knew that he was going to let Dreddlock—Drift—take him home tonight. 


	7. Unforgiven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psyched for TFCon Toronto!
> 
> #

Chapter Seven: Unforgiven 

Drift stared at the markings under Ratchet’s left forearm guard – the panel that covered and protected his medical ports. 

Ratty had worn similar markings. Drift had etched them there with one of Ratty’s scalpels. These markings were rougher, cruder, and deeper, as though they’d been carved into living metal with a much less graceful blade. 

By a much less gentle hand. 

But the thing that turned Drift’s fuel tank the most was that the last glyph was missing. There were supposed to be five. The glyph for _home_ wasn’t there. 

_His Drift…Dreddlock…didn’t have my engraving, either._ Ratchet had admitted that he’d never inscribed the word _forgiven_ into Dreddlock’s arm. 

_Of course not_ , Drift argued. _He already told me, they didn’t have what Ratty and I had._

Drift peered up at Ratchet and wondered what the other mech wanted from him. 

_If he wants a second chance to save that leaker from the Dead End, he’s too late. I don’t need rescuing anymore. I hung up my guns. Came to terms with my anger. Accepted the consequences of my actions. Made amends as best I could. Tried to make the world a better place._

_I learned to accept the love of others. Learned to be a good teammate, a good friend, a good partner. Learned how to build a family and a future._

_Lost them._

Drift was suddenly scared that Ratchet would want to be some kind of mentor to him. To teach him whatever Dreddlock hadn’t learned. 

Drift had passed the point in his life where the thing he craved most was a benevolent authority to teach, encourage and praise him. He couldn’t give Ratchet a do-over, even if he wanted to. 

He prayed that Ratchet would realize that the alienated, addicted, angry and troubled skiv from the Dead End had grown up, stabilized, and built a life for himself. And he _did_ still have a life, even if he felt he’d lost everything. He had his job, his friends from the _Lost Light_ who wanted to reconnect with him, his home, and his place in society. He was a good citizen these days. 

_Not that I’ve been acting like it. I mean, what has Ratchet seen of me? Stealing mood suppressors, running away from the reception after Ratty’s funeral, bullying First Aid into seeing him…_

Spectralism taught that one action begat others, spreading out like ripples on a pond. Drift didn’t like what his introspection had shown him, but at least doing so had shown him the necessary course of action. It was time to stop the current chain of cause-and-effect and start a new one. He needed to come to Ratchet as a partner, not as a dependent in need of Ratchet’s care. 

Even if part of him still wanted Ratchet to save him from his despondency. 

_Ratty’s gone._

_Maybe he’s in the Afterspark. Maybe the Lost Light’s last jump really did quantum duplicate us all and Ratchet is alive and well and cuddled up in bed with the quantum duplicate me._

_I hope both those things are true._

_But even if they are…I still have to live here without Ratty._

_No matter what happens between me and Ratchet of New Vaporex._

Drift took a deep breath. 

Ratchet spoke. “I don’t think Dreddlock had a lot of practice.” 

Drift realized Ratchet was talking about the arm markings. He didn’t know what to say in reply. He didn’t want to think about how the glyphs looked deep and painful. Of course they did. On the street, if it didn’t hurt, it didn’t count. But getting those sigils hacked into his arm must have hurt very much. 

Ratchet filled the silence. “I’d have given Dreddlock one like yours.” He fidgeted. “If he’d ever asked me to.” 

That made Drift feel a little better. He reached out and took Ratchet’s hand again. 

Ratchet’s hand twitched, but he curved his fingers around Drift’s. 

Drift felt terribly curious. The dynamic between Dreddlock and Ratchet of New Vaporex clearly shaped how Ratchet saw him now. Drift knew so little about that dynamic, other than the fact that Ratchet had been surprised to find out that he and Ratty had been conjunx endura. He wanted to ask Ratchet what his other self had been like. 

He knew he mustn’t have been a particularly nice person, or easy to get along with. At the point where the timelines had diverged, Drift had not been in a mental state conducive to bettering himself. He’d been too focused on doing what he needed to do to survive, hardening himself enough to do it without emotions getting in the way, and trading in the rush of drugs for the rush of power, violence, and pride. 

It was too soon for Drift to ask Ratchet about the things Dreddlock had done. Dwelling on those things probably made Ratchet uncomfortable. Ratty had always struggled when he thought too long on the things Drift had done as Deadlock. 

Besides, Drift wasn’t ready for Ratchet to ask for private details about Ratty. 

“Would you give it to me?” Drift asked softly. 

Ratchet blinked. “You haven’t done anything that needs my forgiveness.” He hesitated. “Yet, I suppose.” 

Drift tilted his head. “Used to be the same person, remember? Still me who ended up on your slab, blasted out of his mind with a circuit booster to the brain. Still me who didn’t take your advice to go down to the Council office and let them set me up with a job.” 

“Look at the job they set you up with.” Ratchet paused. “They set _him_ up with.” He toyed with his glass. “Do you know what happened to him?” 

Drift shook his head. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. There were hundreds, thousands, of ways that he could have met a bad end. 

Wanting to know and needing to know were not the same. 

In the end, Drift needed to know. Ratchet would see the shadow of the mech who called himself Dreddlock every time he looked at Drift, and Drift couldn’t blame him, because he still saw Ratty superimposed behind Ratchet of New Vaporex. So Drift steeled his nerves, and nodded. 

The story that Ratchet told sent chills down the back of Drift’s neck. 

In Ratchet’s world there had been no Megatron. The Functionist Council had eventually taken down the gang leaders and crime bosses that Drift had worked for, but Drift continued on as a free-lance bounty hunter, until the day the Functionists came for him. They came for him personally. They hauled him into an office that might also have been a prison, and revealed to him that many of his prior jobs had been at their behest. Now he had a choice to make: keep working for them, or be declared an enemy of the state. He was constructed cold—the general public would not rise in his defense, just as they had not risen when the majority of such mechanisms had been exiled. 

“And he chose survival,” Drift summarized. 

Ratchet nodded helplessly. 

It was a grim thought. There must not have been anyone else on the other side that he thought was worth standing by. 

There must not have been anyone on the other side willing to stand by him. 

Drift didn’t blame Ratchet for that. His own Ratchet had not been enough to keep him from joining the Decepticons. Ratchet of Vaporex had meant well, but had not yet understood that getting clean and off the streets would take more than a fresh coat of paint and a job assignation from the Functionist Council. Ratchet of New Vaporex would have been the same back then. 

“They reconstructed him as one of their enforcers,” Ratchet said. 

“A Dreddbot.” 

Ratchet nodded. “And they gave him a new name. I don’t know if it was their sense of aesthetics, renaming all their Enforcers, or whether it was so nobody would realize there were still cold-constructed mechs around, or whether that Drift wanted to take a different identity.” 

“Megatron renamed me,” Drift blurted. 

Ratchet looked startled. “To what?” 

“Deadlock.” 

For a moment they both stared at one another in silence. The parallels were eerie. Uncanny. 

Ratchet finally managed to speak. “What happened to you? After my clinic.” 

Hesitantly, Drift told him. 


	8. Saviours and Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of delightful Dratchet things at TFCon Toronto this year just made my con. I have so many lovely things: charms, buttons, zines, fics, art, and an incredible original page. I met so many wonderful people and I'm already looking forward to next year.
> 
> #

Chapter Eight: Saviours and Monsters 

Ratchet of New Vaporex was never going to wrap his mind around the idea of Megatron of Tarn being a bad guy. 

He listened to Drift talking about the Decepticons. What the movement had meant to the disenfranchised under the nascent rule of the Functionists. How Megatron had recruited Drift because he had already shown a talent for killing, and then, how he taught Drift to be even better at it. 

It didn’t sound at all like the Megatron Ratchet had known. That Megatron wouldn’t so much as pick up a weapon. And he’d saved Drift, hadn’t he? This Drift hadn’t ended up like Dreddlock. 

Ratchet wanted to forgive his hero. Everybody made mistakes in their youth, didn’t they? Everyone started out with narrow worldviews shaped by the circumstances of their birth or creation. People learned and improved themselves throughout their lives, unless they allowed themselves to reach a point of stagnation and entrenched themselves there. 

Under the violent oppression of Functionism, Ratchet couldn’t blame Megatron for getting a little violent himself. The Functionists did not understand any language save force. While Ratchet himself abhorred violence, he believed that it was even more wrong to stand idly by and watch atrocities being committed. He had dedicated his life to preserving the lives of others. Sometimes, to preserve the innocent, he’d been forced to take the lives of the guilty. 

But that was where the difference lay. 

The Autobots – the natives of this universe – told the residents of New Cybertron that Megatron, their liberator, their _hero_ , had committed xenocide on a scale that still boggled Ratchet’s mind. Indeed, this galaxy was a lot emptier than the one that Ratchet had lived in up until the day that the Functionists transformed Cybertron into a world-sized warrior and attempted to cleanse the multiverse. Drift explained that as the war went on, Decepticonism had strayed from its original form and became a tyranny founded on concepts of mechanical superiority and survival of the fittest. Those were things that Ratchet could not condone. It didn’t seem right to be able to forgive such things. If, that is, the accusations were true. Ratchet desperately wanted them to be lies. 

The Galactic Council clearly didn’t care that Megatron was a hero to the people of New Cybertron. They’d insisted on trying him for his crimes, regardless. 

Ratchet had wanted to believe that Megatron had gone to trial in order to spare the rest of New Cybertron from galactic warfare. An act of appeasement. One final sacrifice in the name of peace. 

But Megatron had pled guilty to all charges. He hadn’t even tried to argue in his own defense. It hurt Ratchet to think that Megatron had confessed to doing everything the Council accused him of having done. It didn’t sound at all like the Megatron that Ratchet had fought with. Had fought _for_ . 

How could a saviour also be a monster? 

Then Ratchet considered who he was talking to. Drift was another example of goodness and evil coexisting in one body. Or Pharma of New Vos: talented surgeon who saved people’s lives, or elitist reactionary who supported an evil government? 

Or himself. 

Sworn to preserve life, he’d nevertheless taken up guns in an act of revolution. 

Ratchet let out a deep breath. 

Drift paused, waiting for Ratchet to say something. 

“Sorry,” Ratchet said slowly. “I just…it’s hard. I’m so used to thinking of Megatron as my leader.” He paused. “We were…if not exactly friends, then…” He searched for a word. “Confidantes, perhaps.” 

Drift nodded. “I served under him briefly on the _Lost Light_. He’d changed from the way he was when I served under him in the Decepticons. He was on his way to becoming the person you knew.” 

Ratchet felt guilty. He wasn’t sure why. For wanting to pardon someone who confessed to atrocities? Or for failing to stand by his leader? “I hope Prowl and the rest of your leaders are prepared for the resentment brewing on New Cybertron. There are a lot of people here fully ready to go to war against the Galactic Council in retaliation for what they did to Megatron. And a lot of people who think the Autobots could have done something about it and didn’t.” 

Drift pressed his lips together. “I’m still confused when I think about it,” Drift admitted. “On one hand, Megatron saved my life. When he renamed me…it felt like being reborn. He called me Deadlock. He gave me purpose. He was the reason I managed to stay clean.” 

Drift looked down into his glass. “On the other hand, he encouraged me to kill and keep killing. He took away my hesitation by telling me that the slaughter was necessary for a better world to be born. I didn’t need the drugs to keep my conscience quiet any more, because I believed him. I believed that everything he asked me to do was right. So, there was nothing to hold me back.” 

“What changed your mind?” 

“A combination of things. It started with some bad commanders. Selfish of me, yes, to only start wondering when it affected me personally, but it did get me asking why people like Turmoil were allowed to commit abuses and keep their ranks. The more I looked, the more I saw corruption all through the Decepticons, right up to Megatron himself. Then I met the Circle of Light, and their religion offered me something to hold onto just as I was losing faith in Decepticonism.” 

Ratchet watched Drift drink from his glass and tried not to think about how pretty he was. 

“It felt like…” Drift shook his head. “One revelation after another. Megatron wasn’t making anyone’s lives better any more. By the time I left the Decepticons, he was just bringing suffering to more and more people. I was using violence like I’d once used drugs: as a way to hide from the emptiness at the heart of me. Something had to change. I quit the war and tried to do some good on my own. Then I started working with the Autobots.” 

Drift gave Ratchet a smile that didn’t reach his optics. “It wasn’t like you with the rebellion. I don’t know if I ever believed in the Autobots, in their mission or their cause. I just knew they were the only way to stand up to the Decepticons. Undoing the harm that Megatron had done was more than I could accomplish alone.” His gaze dropped to his glass. “You can see why I would be an asset to the Autobots. And as for me and what I wanted, well, it’s not like I had anywhere else to go.” 

It felt strange to Ratchet to see this shiny, polished priest admit that he would have been adrift in the universe without the Autobots. Yet Ratchet understood his reasoning. Drift might have been able to go anywhere and do anything, but he would not have been able to find a sense of meaning in a task he picked for himself. At that point in his life, his sense of meaning was entirely wrapped up in atoning for the damage he’d done. An attempt to do anything else would probably have led him right back down into the claws of his vices: drugs, violence, or both. 

“Were they suspicious of you? The way the Rebellion was suspicious of me?” 

Drift blinked. “Wait, what? The Rebellion was suspicious of you? Why?” 

“Because I was one of the mechs who benefited under Functionism. I was a forged medic, a career class whose services would always be in demand. Political power couldn’t cheat death, but the Functionist Council certainly had us try our best. They wanted to stay alive and well as long as possible to savour the world they had made. They needed medics to do that.” Ratchet swallowed the last of his spritzer. “So when I joined the Rebellion—and I admit it took me long enough—a lot of mechs thought I might be a spy. At the very least they wondered what was wrong with me, slumming with the masses when I could be living in the spires of Iacon and Vos, enjoying the accident of my birth.” 

Drift exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, there were a lot of Autobots who didn’t want me. Given how many of their friends I’d killed, I can’t really blame them.” 

Ratchet hesitated. He might have repaired the Functionists and their forces at the start of the war, but he’d not actively murdered anyone. 

“It hurts.” Drift’s optics shimmered. “When you’re doing your best and nobody wants you. When your best isn’t good enough.” 

Ratchet felt a lump rise in his throat. Instinctively, he rubbed the fingers of Drift’s hand, which he realized he was still holding. 


	9. Gold Card

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've noticed the chapter count drop from 20 to 11, fear not: this story is now 11 chapters instead of 20 because the other 9 chapters are going to be a third story. There was a big thematic break in the middle so it made more sense to call it a separate story.
> 
> #

Chapter Nine: Gold Card 

Ratchet hadn’t planned on rushing things with Drift. He was used to other mechs making overtures towards him. He’d already admitted to himself that he would accept whatever attentions Drift wanted to give him. 

But he hadn’t been able to just sit here and see Drift on the verge of tears. He’d stroked Drift’s hand, and then Drift’s fingers had closed around his as though Ratchet were saving him from a long and potentially deadly fall. Drift clung, staring at him, but didn’t speak. And Ratchet didn’t know what to say. 

Ratchet had felt as though he were the only person so badly out of step with the rest of his team: needed for his skills, but not really _liked_. He’d been actively resented by a large number of people in the Rebellion. Also welcomed by a small handful, but of course Megatron and Thunderwing had been too busy to socialize with Ratchet on a day to day basis. They had important duties of their own. Fortunately, Ratchet had always had plenty of work to distract him from the fact that he’d blown up his _old_ life when he’d joined the Rebellion, only to find very little companionship in his new one. 

It turned out that Drift of Rodion had done much the same when he’d left the Decepticons for the Autobots. 

They had something more in common than just a night in Rodion where their paths happened to cross. Drift had experienced things that Dreddlock never had. 

Drift forced a smile. “Heh. I’m sorry.” 

“Doesn’t seem to me you have anything to be sorry for.” 

“You were right. This is pretty heavy stuff for, you know, going out to have fun.” 

Which was true, but… “I don’t care.” 

“Lucky me.” Drift’s smile broadened, as though it were growing into genuine sincerity. “I don’t exactly have a lot of experience doing this kind of thing.” 

Ratchet almost made a quip to the effect that nobody had a lot of experience associating with people who had history with their alternate universe counterparts, but he bit it back, because what he really wanted to know was whether _this kind of thing_ meant _dating_ or just _casual fun_. Dreddlock had never been much for casual fun, either. There was nothing casual about Dreddlock’s obsession. 

“What kind of thing?” Ratchet asked innocently. 

“You know,” Drift said, and then suddenly he grew tense and he jerked his hand away. His optics locked on something at the front of the bar. 

Ratchet turned his head, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just staff serving patrons who were drinking, chatting, laughing and enjoying snacks. He turned to Drift questioningly. 

Drift lowered his head, returning his gaze to Ratchet. “You see that guy at the bar? Brown and cream, zig zag ornamentation on each side of his helm?” 

Ratchet tried not to stare as he looked again. “I think so.” 

“That’s Chromedome. And his conjunx endura, Rewind. You won’t see Rewind. He’s stuck in data drive form now, and he spends his time jacked into Chromedome’s neural system.” 

“Wait, I know those names. You said something about quantum duplicates…” 

“Yeah. So, I mean, if anyone is going to understand why me and you are hanging out together, it’s Chromedome and Rewind.” 

That’s right. Two people who actually did have significant prior experience with this alternate parallel counterpart business. 

Drift continued, “But I don’t know if you’re really up for introductions tonight.” 

Ratchet hesitated. He imagined trying to explain to one of Drift’s friends who he was and what he was doing associating with Drift, and his tanks turned over. He was already too sober for that. Just the idea made him uncomfortable. 

He asked himself why. 

The answer was obvious: because he himself didn’t know what he wanted from this relationship, or even if tonight was supposed to be a date. 

Ratchet looked at Drift. “I’d like to meet your friends, but, would you mind if I said I’d like a little more time to get things straight in my own head first?” 

“I don’t mind.” Drift’s smile was sheepish. “I could use the same, to be honest.” 

Ratchet’s instincts twitched. What if…what if Drift didn’t know whether or not this was a date, either? 

Ratchet supposed it didn’t matter. He knew what would happen when Drift got him home. 

Dear Primus. That was probably where they were going now. 

It had never been a _date_ with Dreddlock, either. 

Ratchet tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. Drift had saved his life. Again. He was due a reward. 

“I’ll settle up with the bartender. You head out that way.” Drift gestured to the corridor. “I’ll meet you in the alley.” 

“Wait, I…” Most of his dates let him pay. He was a doctor with a government salary. Dreddlock had always laughed before buying things for himself with Ratchet’s money. “You go. I’ll get the bill.” 

“Not a chance.” Drift’s voice was stern. He reached into his subspace and withdrew… 

…was that a Gold Card? 

Ratchet gave up. “Okay,” he said, and did as he was told. 

The alley was narrow and crowded with empty delivery crates, but not as dirty as Ratchet had expected, nor were there any shady characters loitering in its shadows. Ratchet leaned back against the wall, feeling like the only mechanism in the universe. There weren’t many places you could go to be alone in Iacon. 

Then Ratchet heard footsteps, and looked up to see a silhouetted figure approaching him. 

_Thought too soon,_ Ratchet chided himself, pushing away from the wall, wondering if he was about to be in trouble. 

Drift’s features emerged from the gloom. “Let’s go.” 

If this was trouble, it was a kind of trouble that Ratchet welcomed. He changed into his ambulance mode, but Drift stepped into his path. 

“You gonna move, kid?” 

“Not until you change back.” Drift folded his arms—a gesture so different from the threat of a raised fist. “You’re in no condition to drive all the way back to Adaptica yet.” Ratchet had engaged his FIM chip, and the effects of the engex were fading fast, but he supposed it would be better to be safe than sorry. The only good thing that could come from his overcharging would be convincing Drift to take him home. He transformed back. “It’s a long walk from here to the ground bridge.” 

“So? The night is young.” 

Drift wasn’t getting it. Ratchet threw subtlety to the wind. “Isn’t your place closer?” 

Drift hesitated. Ratchet felt his fuel pump sink. 

“I…” Drift wrung his hands. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet.” 

Right. That was where Drift had lived with his now-deceased conjunx. If he pushed too hard, he’d lose Drift entirely. “I understand,” Ratchet murmured softly. “I could make my own way home, if you’d prefer.” 

“I want to come with you.” Drift looked agitated. “Is that okay?” 

“Yeah,” Ratchet said with a soft smile as he drew parallel with Drift. This time, Drift let him—even taking his arm as they left the alley and turned onto the main thoroughfare. Ratchet considered telling Drift he wasn’t _that_ unsteady on his feet, but decided against it. Drift’s frame felt warm against his. It was the closest they’d been all night. 

Dreddlock had always enjoyed draping himself over Ratchet’s shoulders, then leaning his full weight against him. He’d never cared about Ratchet’s personal space. Ratchet wasn’t sure if Drift had been distant because he didn’t think of him in the same way, or if Drift just had better manners. Ratchet didn’t want to think about it, for fear his insecurity would latch onto the first explanation. He tried to quiet his brain, enjoy the closeness, and come up with a topic of conversation to distract his mind. 

“So where’d you get that kind of money?” 

Drift blinked, the picture of faux innocence. 

“Gold card,” Ratchet prodded. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Drift said coldly. Ratchet felt his entire frame stiffen and automatically cringed. 

Drift noticed. 

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Drift said. He held out his arm, and Ratchet, obediently, tucked himself back against Drift’s side. Drift’s arm curled over his shoulders, but so gently, so carefully. 

Drift took a deep breath as they resumed walking. “You’re gonna hear anyway.” A pause for two steps. “More importantly, I don’t want there to be weird secrets between us.” 

Drift’s behaviour told Ratchet that it was already too late for that. 


	10. Weird Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's supported this fic. I am a bit scattered of late and struggling with replies but I wanted everyone to know that their comments, kudos, reblogs, and support is much appreciated.
> 
> #

Chapter Ten: Weird Secrets 

Drift bit his lip and wished he’d been more careful. Ratchet of New Vaporex didn’t sass back the way Ratty had. Drift had automatically assumed that Ratchet would say something snarky, like that the gold card was already half an answer and Drift’s reluctance the other half. 

Ratchet of New Vaporex had looked as though Drift was going to hit him. 

Drift remembered cringing like that when he’d lived on the street. He also remembered making other people cringe like that. Deadlock had gotten a big kick out of having that kind of power. The power to instill fear in others. 

Drift hated himself for frightening Ratchet. When was he going to remember that Deadlock was still there, under his paint, behind his optics? Deadlock might not be the person he aspired to be any longer, but he’d still be living with that part of himself for the rest of his life. 

Ratchet had a right to know. 

Drift cleared his throat. “I did some bounty hunting too, before Megatron recruited me.” He hesitated, trying to choose the right words, but decided there was no point in trying to hide a gruesome truth. “Did a bunch afterwards, too. Decepticons didn’t mind if it didn’t interfere with missions, and sometimes it was easy to double it up with the missions. Some of the bounties were…pretty big.” 

He took a sideways glance at Ratchet. Funny, now Ratchet didn’t look scared at all. 

“Nowadays, I’m…I don’t know the word. _Regretful_ , I guess. _Embarrassed_ doesn’t cover my shame at knowing this money is tainted with blood.” Drift sighed. “I bought Rodimus the _Lost Light_.” 

“The ship whose engines gave us all that power, right after the war. The one that powered the Bronze Harvest.” 

“I paid for the construction of the Spectralist Temple in Iacon, too. And I _still_ have money on that card.” Drift hesitated. “I guess, by now, most of my finances is the salary the temple pays me, and I flip a lot of it back into charity, but…in short, there’s still dirty money in that account and I’d rather spend it on someone good.” 

_Rather than on myself_ went unsaid, but Drift wasn’t sure Ratchet didn’t hear it anyway. 

“Dreddlock always made me pay,” Ratchet blurted. 

Drift blinked. “Didn’t the Functionists give him a salary?” 

“Probably, but he thought it was funny to make me treat him instead.” 

Drift frowned. “That makes him sound like a creep.” 

Finally, Drift saw a spark of Ratchet’s fire. Ratchet’s hands balled up. “He’s not a…” But Ratchet couldn’t finish the sentence before his shoulders slumped and his fingers uncurled. “He had a lot of problems,” Ratchet murmured. “He took them out on other people.” 

Drift sighed. “Yeah. I can understand that.” Still, he felt protective. Like he wanted to stab anyone who hurt Ratchet of New Vaporex. Or maybe his old self-hatred was getting a thrill from having a self outside himself to fantasize about hurting. As though he could take everything he disliked about himself, stuff it into Dreddlock, and slay it. “Doesn’t make it right, though.” 

“I suppose not.” 

Drift also had to consider who they were talking about: the other _him_. “I try very hard not to do that,” Drift said softly. “Please tell me if I cross the line so I can do better.” 

“All right,” Ratchet said. They took a few steps in silence. Then Ratchet added, “Just so you know, I won’t ever blame you for trying something. Even if it is over the line.” 

Drift wasn’t entirely sure what that statement meant. “Would rather ask you first.” 

Ratchet blinked. “Or you could do that. Yeah. Okay.” 

Again, the only noise was the sound of their footfalls. Drift tried to think of something to say as he walked alongside Ratchet, but what topic could possibly be an appropriate followup? 

Instead, his thoughts jumped ahead to what would happen when he finally got Ratchet home. 

Drift knew what he _wanted_ to have happen. He wanted Ratchet of New Vaporex to hold him close until he drifted off into recharge. He wanted to feel the warmth of Ratchet’s frame next to his. He wanted to wake up reaching out for his conjunx, as he always did, and instead of feeling his hand pass through empty air and land with a thump on the cold slab, it would come to rest on Ratchet’s shoulder, and Ratchet would smile in his sleep… 

But this Ratchet wasn’t his conjunx, and if he went to this Ratchet’s berth, Ratchet would probably expect what most mechs would expect from the conclusion of a date. 

Well. Drift knew how to pay the rent for a berth to sleep in. This time, he wouldn’t even mind all that much. For once, he was actually attracted to the mech he would be renting it from. 

So why did he feel so much reluctance? 

_I’m not ready for this._

But Deadlock had a different opinion. 

_Oh, yes you are. You’re more ready for this than for anything else this night can offer. Take him home and let him frag you through the berth until you forget how much it hurts to know that your conjunx is lying cold in Rivets Field tonight._

Drift knew that voice entirely too well. It was the same voice that had convinced him to drown his pain in drugs, and to smother his pain in blood. Now it was trying to persuade him to bury his pain with interface. That was a new approach, but now that Drift felt actual attraction for someone and not merely resigned himself to trading interface for necessities, now his vices had a toehold from which to assure him that getting fragged into oblivion would make everything stop hurting, if only for a night. 

Drift could think of no better reason not to listen. 

For a moment, his thoughts flicked back to the previous conversation. _Would rather ask you first_. Maybe he could just _ask_ Ratchet about what he really wanted? 

_Would you hold me tonight?_

_Would that be enough?_

It would be like the first time, like that night on Hedonia, when most of the rest of the crew had gone planetside on shore leave. Drift had stayed behind, far away from the temptations of a planet where Syk was plentiful and easy to come by. He’d summoned his courage and pushed down his pride and gone to the medbay, where Ratchet was on duty, to ask the medic if he’d just…if he could just touch him one more time, the way he had the night he’d saved his life… 

But even that simple request hadn’t ended so innocently. Ratchet’s touch was both gentle and devastating, seeking out sensitive places in both Drift’s body and his soul, doing things to him he hadn’t imagined possible, and taking him places he’d never thought he’d go. 

If he went to Ratchet’s berth tonight, he knew he wouldn’t stay in control for long. Nature would take its course, whatever that was, and Drift wasn’t prepared to handle the consequences. 

Because this Ratchet next to him wasn’t the mech who’d made his frame sing in low orbit around Hedonia all those centuries ago, and it would be doing both Ratchets a disservice for Drift to pretend that he was, even for a night, even for a moment. 

And yet if Ratchet of New Vaporex smiled at him, Drift was certain that all his good intentions would crumble, and once again he’d let right and wrong be problems for some other Drift—for tomorrow’s Drift—while he took the moment for all it was worth tonight. 


	11. Good Time

Chapter Eleven: Good Time 

This was it. 

Ratchet looked down the building’s corridor at his apartment door and felt an old familiar sensation. Twin feelings rose up inside him, setting his fuel pump pounding and constricting his throat. He wondered if he’d ever feel excitement without disgust, for the rest of his life. 

Ratchet reminded himself that this time there was nothing to be disgusted about. Drift wasn’t his patient, nor was he a Functionist soldier. He hadn’t even engaged in disturbing and inappropriate behaviours that Ratchet ought not to encourage, like following him in the streets or breaking into his quarters. Scrap it, Ratchet had almost been _disappointed_ that Drift hadn’t stalked him like Dreddlock had. 

Ratchet’s brain scrabbled for other things to feel guilty for. Things like being the kind of mech who fragged on the first date, or the fact that he was old and blocky and settling into the mediocrity of a semi-retired medical administrator. He was a far cry from the young and accomplished Chief Medical Officer who’d caught Pharma’s optic and taken him home to his opulent condominium in the towers of Iacon. 

A far cry from the young and accomplished Chief Medical Officer who’d saved the life of a leaker in the Dead End. 

Ratchet glanced sideways at Drift and suddenly none of that mattered. 

Just over a week ago he’d been dying and not even aware of it. His social life outside of work involved lighting candles on the tomb of a mech he hadn’t been able to save. Then Dreddlock’s parallel universe twin had found him, saved his life, and taken him out on the town. 

He was alive. So was Drift. That was reason enough. 

Ratchet came to a stop outside his door, vowing to throw away fear and regret and recriminations. Tonight he was ready to take responsibility for his actions. He raised his head to look at Drift, his handsome features, his glowing optics. 

“I had a good time tonight,” Drift whispered. 

Ratchet closed his optics, submitting. He waited for Drift to shove him up against the wall, or cover his lips in a punishing kiss, or… By the Pit. Maybe Drift would just sink his fangs into Ratchet’s neck without preamble, the way Dreddlock had. 

“See you soon,” Drift said. His voice sounded farther away. 

Startled, Ratchet lit his optics. Drift was already four paces away from him, walking down the hall, waving goodbye as he went. 

Stunned, Ratchet managed to lift his hand to return the wave. His mind wanted to ask what was happening, but all his mouth could do was mumble, “See ya, kid.” 

An instant later, Ratchet felt stupid. Drift wasn’t a kid anymore. He was an experienced professional at his chosen career. At multiple careers. And Ratchet didn’t need to dig for the lost youth underneath the Dreddbot’s armour, because Drift wasn’t Dreddlock, and never had been. 

But Ratchet swore he saw Drift’s smile broaden, right before he turned the corner and vanished from sight. 

Ratchet stood out in the hallway, listening to Drift’s fading footsteps, for a long time before he opened his apartment door. 

* 

Ratchet woke out of recharge the next morning and stared at the ceiling. His head wasn’t aching and his vision wasn’t spinning. He hadn’t had that much engex last night after all. Just enough to give him a very fleeting buzz, a buzz that had vanished long before he entered his apartment. 

Just enough to make Drift feel concerned enough to leave Maccadam’s early. 

Ratchet hadn’t even needed to recharge again so soon, with no engex hangover to recover from, though he admitted it had probably been good for him. One of First Aid’s recommendations to counteract the spark burnout was that he recharge often. 

To his surprise, he’d slept well. He’d drifted off thinking about how warm Drift’s hand had been. Almost as warm as his smile. 

Now, though, Ratchet had to get up and face a new day. A day where he _still_ had no idea if last night had been a date. 

Maybe he ought to hope it was a evening of platonic friendship. If that were the case, it had gone just fine. If it had been a date, then Ratchet had screwed it up, because Drift hadn’t even asked to come in. Hadn’t even waited for Ratchet to invite him. 

As though Ratchet’s complete and utter surrender hadn’t been invitation enough. 

Fortunately, Ratchet had work to distract him from questions he had no answers to. He changed shape, drove in to the Rong Memorial Hospital, and did his day’s work. Followed by tomorrow’s work. 

He was doing it again. 

Still, the thought of going home to his apartment made him feel trapped. He’d have nowhere to escape from the uncertainty that tormented him. 

Maybe he could put it off just a little longer. A bit more work before Flatline and the rest of the staff noticed. 

First, though, he went to the cafeteria and acquired a cube of high-quality energon. First Aid had told him to refuel more often than usual, too, on the best energon available. He needed to give his systems every possible advantage if he wanted a full recovery. And chatting with the other staffers on fuel break gave Ratchet another precious hour of distraction before he had to go home. 

He’d just returned to his office, promising himself one more day’s worth of work before he went home, when his office comm link buzzed. 

“Hello, Rong Memorial Hospital, Head Administrative…” Ratchet winced. “Sorry. _Former_ Head Administrative Officer Ratchet, how can I assist you?” 

“Hey.” The word was soft and slow. It took a moment for Ratchet to realize who it was. 

“Drift?” 

“I hope you aren’t angry that I called these coordinates.” 

“No,” Ratchet said, when what he meant was that he was thrilled that Drift had taken the time to search out his office number. Never mind that this line wasn’t for personal calls, or that finding his office number was one of the milder ways that Dreddlock showed his obsession. 

“I had a good time last night,” Drift said shyly. 

Ratchet’s voxcoder stopped. He reset it quickly. “Me too, kid.” 

“So, ah…” Ratchet thought the sounds Drift made to fill the silence while he tried to work up to saying what he wanted to say were actually quite endearing. 

But when Drift finally spit it out, Ratchet’s mood came crashing down. 

“I want to see you again, but—I’m so sorry—I’m totally busy at work for the next few weeks.” 

Ratchet knew what that was code for. He’d used the line plenty of times himself. It was good when an acquaintance wanted to get too personal, and it was equally good when a one-night stand got overly clingy. Ratchet winced. He’d not even gotten to be that one-night stand. 

Ratchet almost missed what Drift said next. 

“So, um, I was wondering if you wanted to come to the Festival of Lost Light and keep me company at work.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> No, of course that's not the end of the entire arc.
> 
> Part 3, "Knocking on Heaven's Door" coming soon.


End file.
